A is for
by Elspeth1
Summary: A lot of things. Eight drabbles and ficlets about Cap and Iron Man.


**Title:** A is for... a lot of things  
**Author:** elspethdixon  
**Rated:** G through PG-13  
**Pairings:** Steve/Tony  
**Disclaimer:** The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this fan-written work.

**Notes:** Written for the cap--ironman (actually cap(underscore)ironman, but ff,net dislikes underscores) alphabet challenge.

* * *

_A is for "America"_(1)

When Steve thinks of America, he doesn't think of majestic purple mountains and amber waves of grain, and he certainly doesn't think of alabaster cities. Steve's city is New York, and no one would ever describe New York as "alabaster."

New York is the red and brown brick of riverfront warehouses, the grey stone and steel of the Brooklyn and George Washington Bridges, the bright silver of Wall Street's mirrored windows, the green of Central Park, the multi-colored glare of Times Square, and the grime of the tenements that had been there when Steve was a kid in the Depression and were still there now, in different parts of the city, sometimes, and inhabited by new immigrant populations speaking new languages, but always present.

"God mend thine every flaw," though, hits closer to the mark. Steve grew up in a country where at least a dozen of the people who had been his fellow Avengers over the years wouldn't have been allowed to ride in the same train car with him, where his relationship with Tony could have gotten both of them thrown in jail, where there had been immigration quotas to keep too many people of "undesirable" races from getting into the country.

All of that had changed while he was on ice, was still changing. Not completely, and there were still people who tried everything in their power to undo those changes, but if there was one thing Steve had faith in, it was the fact that the America people, in the end, would choose liberty and justice over tyranny, brotherhood over division. His country had outlawed slavery, had given all of its citizens the right to vote regardless of race or sex, had ended segregation, had adhered to the promises set down in its constitution for over two hundred years.

And that was something worth dying for. Even, when there was no other option, worth killing for. Something more beautiful than all of the rolling hills of wheat or shining white marble in the world.

_

* * *

_

A is for "Armor"

The first time Tony put on the armor, he immediately fell over. It was heavy, clumsy, almost impossible to walk in, and the helmet restricted his vision so much that he was half-blind.

Now, he can't imagine life without it. He's gone through dozens of different models and modifications since then, each version of the armor more advanced, more capable, more refined. Art, he tells people, when they comment on some new upgrade, is never finished. Only abandoned.

The armor has no blueprints, no written design specs; all of the planning takes place inside Tony's head, and save for Yinsen's help with the first model, no hands but his own have ever worked on it. The armor is Tony's alone, in a way that nothing else he's ever designed has been. Other people have _worn_ it, yes, but it's the design and construction and maintenance that truly makes it Tony's, not who's filling the bootjets.

The War Machine armor uses some of the same tech, a lot of the same design concepts, but Tony custom built it for Rhodey, not for himself, so it's not the same.

When he wears the armor, when he's Iron Man, with the breastplate protecting his heart and the helmet hiding his face, no one can see Tony Stark inside it. All of his weaknesses and flaws are hidden behind red and gold metal and some of the finest tech ever built, and maybe he isn't really invincible, but sometimes, for a few brief moments, when he's flying at 30,000 feet at twice the speed of sound, flying without an airplane, he feels like he is.

_

* * *

_

A is for "Army" and also for "Allies" and "Attack" and "Abandonment"

There was a time when wearing the uniform made Steve feel invulnerable. Brown or green tunic, cap or Sam Brown hat, it didn't matter; the important thing was the insignia and what they meant. In uniform, he was part of something larger than himself, and more powerful because of it. Putting on his costume was the same, only more so; when he put on the leather, the scale-mail, the cowl, the gloves and boots, he felt like he was some ancient Greek warrior going into battle, shield in hand and armored in the colors of his country. He and Bucky took down saboteurs, spies, Nazi supervillains sent to attack America and take the American war machine out of the game before Roosevelt had a chance to rethink his promises to maintain the nation's isolationism, anything and everything you could think of, and nothing could touch them. Then came December 7th, 1941, and things stopped being a game. The costume had made Steve feel invulnerable, but it took about two weeks in the Pacific to cure him of that.

His presence hadn't been enough to tip the balance, and Luzon had been evacuated, and the people they had left behind had died by the thousands. They'd been beheaded, starved to death, used as slave labor. Steve and the others had burned the flag before they left, to make sure that it, at least, wouldn't fall into the enemy's hands.

His country's colors didn't feel as much like armor after that.

_

* * *

_

A is for Alcohol

It wasn't until Tony had stopped drinking that he realized how often in the course of a given week he found himself _completely surrounded by alcohol._

Every party he went to had waiters circulating with trays of champagne. Every restaurant he took a date or a potential Stark Enterprises client to had a wine list. Every time Tony invited another businessman to his office to broker a deal, he was expected to offer him his choice of drinks, to propose a toast.

If he didn't keep scotch and brandy in his office just in case a visitor wanted any, or was conspicuously absent from parties with open bars, it would be a sign of weakness, and weakness in the business world was like blood in the water; the sharks would be on you in seconds.

There were times when Tony suspected that it would have been easier if he were addicted to cocaine or some other illegal drug. At least then he'd only be offered it at some of the parties he went to, instead of every single one.

"No," he told a waiter for what felt like the hundredth time. "I don't want any champagne." He could practically taste the lie on his lips. He could smell the alcohol in those tall, delicate champagne flutes from here, see the little trails of bubbles dancing upwards through clear, gold liquid.

Tony didn't even like champagne. Not the vintage that was being served tonight, anyway; a Californian label that was much sweeter than he liked.

He told himself that as the waiter left, but he couldn't make himself believe it.

"Lighten up, Tony." Sunset Bain smiled at him, her perfectly made up lips the same dark, almost blood red as her dress. "It's New Years. You have to toast the New Year with _something_."

"I prefer to ring in the New Year with a kiss," Tony told her, forcing himself to smile. _Not with you, though, you scheming viper,_ he thought. "Which reminds me, you haven't seen my date, have you?"

"Miss Fujikawa's out on the dance floor, I believe," Sunset drawled. "I'm always available, though, if you can't pull her away from her new admirer before midnight."

Tony fought the desire to take a step back. It had been over a decade since Sunset had seduced his father's business secrets out of him and then dropped him like a hot rock; he shouldn't still feel the impulse to put a couple of feet of space or even a solid object between them every time he met her.

He should have taken Steve up on the invitation to spend New Years at the Avengers Mansion. Would have, if it weren't for the fact that everyone who was anyone in business or New York society was here tonight, and his absence would have been noted.

Wouldn't that be a perfect way to ring in the New Year? Kissing Steve, whose mouth would probably be more electrifying than the most high-proof whisky, and smoother than expensive cognac. And who was straight, currently involved with some pretty lawyer, and would never have allowed Tony to cheat on Rumiko with him even if he'd been gay and unattached. Even if Tony would actually have had the nerve to try.

"Thanks," Tony forced out, his smile feeling frozen. He didn't actually flee her presence to go and find Rumiko; it was more of a dignified retreat.

"Tony!" Rumiko exclaimed as soon as she caught sight of him, turning away from her dance partner and leaving him abandoned in the middle of the dance floor, a woeful look on his face. "There you are. It's eleven fifty-eight. I was about to come looking for you."

She was wearing black velvet, long but backless, and the jeweled poinsettia he'd gotten her from Tiffany's for Christmas was a splash of color at her throat. Her smile, and the fact that she was wearing his present despite the fact that it didn't quite match the silver detailing on the neckline and hem of her dress, suddenly made Tony glad he'd come after all.

"Ten." The word rang through the entire room. Time Square was several blocks away, so a live broadcast of the ball dropping was playing on a giant video screen at the far end of the room. Most of the people present weren't even looking at it. "Nine. Eight. Seven."

"Next year," Rumiko told him, shouting to be heard over the noise, "we're doing this in Tokyo, where there'll be fireworks."

"Four. Three. Two..."

When Tony kissed her, the inside of her mouth tasted like too-sweet Californian champagne. He closed his eyes and told himself it was the kiss that made him dizzy.

_

* * *

_

A is for Amour

Tony tasted like the hot chocolate they had had for desert.

Steve had brought it over from the chocolate shop across the street. He'd gotten Tony one with no milk in it, bitter with the taste of barely sweetened melted chocolate. Tony preferred coffee, Steve knew, but Jacques Torres chocolate was one of the things about Brooklyn that he was going to miss, and he intended to take advantage of being within walking distance of it while he could.

Tony tasted like chocolate, and his hands were hot against Steve's skin as he slide Steve's shirt up and reached for the top button of his jeans. Tony broke the kiss, his eyes half-lidded and dilated with lust. "Aren't you glad," he murmured, pausing to press an open-mouthed kiss against Steve's throat, "that you're leaving your depressing warehouse in the most yuppified part of Brookyn and moving to my nice," he took a step forward, pressing Steve back until his shoulders hit the rough brick of the wall, "luxurious penthouse?"

Then he was on his knees, and his mouth was even hotter than his hands, and Steve's attempt to say that he _liked_ living under the Brooklyn Bridge, that he even liked the tourists, dissolved into inarticulate moans.

Reforming the Avengers, he decided some time later, as he lay on the couch with his cheek against the scarred center of Tony's chest, was one of the best ideas he'd ever had.

* * *

_A is for Arctic and All Alone_

The entire world was in monochrome, composed of various shades of white and grey -- white snow, grey ice, dark grey water. The three of them -- himself, Jan, and Hank -- were out of place there, their costumes too bright, glaring red and black and yellow against the white snow.

The armor's sensors told Tony that the wind chill factor was 22 degrees below zero. He probably ought to feel cold.

He didn't feel anything. He was never going to feel anything again.

* * *

_A is for Alive_

Everyone who saw him had reacted differently. Sharon had cried when she and Sam had found him in Red Skull's cells. Sam had hugged him, shaking him back and forth and swearing at him, threatening him with dire consequences if he ever _dared_ to do that to him again. Bucky, strange and hard in Steve's borrowed costume, had been suspicious at first, and then awkward; he and Steve didn't really know each other anymore. The two of them had a chance to fix that now, though. They had come within inches of never being able to.

Clint had stared at him with something like awe on his face, frozen for a long moment before he let out a loud whoop and flung himself at Steve. "You sonuvabitch," he whispered hoarsely, hugging Steve every bit as hard as Sam had. "I thought you were dead. I hate you." And then he hugged Steve again.

Nick Fury hadn't even looked surprised, just nodded a sort of grim acknowledgement at him and proceeded to fill him in on the ongoing threat of Skrull invasion. He had Hank Pym with him, a thin, twitchy Hank who had apparently spent the time Steve spent at Red Skull's tender mercies locked up in a Skrull internment camp. He and Jarvis had apparently staged an uprising and broken out.

He subjected a sample of Steve's blood to three different chemical tests before he believed that Steve wasn't a Skrull.

Tony did none of those things. He stood there, helmet-less, his armor dented and singed from the final battle against the Skrull, and stared at Steve with a raw, broken look on his face. "Steve," he whispered, voice barely audible.

He lurched forward a step and collapsed to his knees at Steve's feet with a clatter of armor, leaning his face against Steve's legs. "If you're another Skrull," he breathed, eyes closed, "then please kill me. I can't-- I--"

Steve wrapped one hand around the back of Tony's head, fingers curling into his sweat-matted hair and felt his throat close up so tight that it hurt. His eyes were suddenly hot, stinging. "I'm not a Skrull," he promised. "Hank's done every test he can think of on me, including that chemical swab he invented that melts Skrull skin."

"Steve," Tony whispered, his voice shaking. "Steve. Steve. Steve."

Steve had to haul him back to his feet. The two of them stood there side-by-side, surrounded by green alien corpses, and Steve felt alive again for the first time in months.

* * *

_A is for Avengers Assemble!_

"Well," Clint said, with ill-concealed impatience, after the ten of them -- Tony, Steve, Thor, Hank, Jan, Wanda, Carol, Simon, Clint, and Mockingbird, who might not actually be Bobbi and might not actually be human, but Tony didn't mind if Clint didn't -- had stood there for a minute or so, "is someone going to say it?"

Tony knew how he felt; they weren't a team until someone said the words. In a way, it wasn't _real_ until the words were said, but Tony wasn't the one to say them, not anymore. Not this time, at least.

"You want to do the honors, Mr. Living Legend?" Tony asked, and it should have sounded silly, the question such a heavy-handed repetition of a joke he'd made so many times, but it didn't. The air felt electric with anticipation, but also somehow reverent -- like the moment in church just before the bride and groom say "I do."

The ten of them had been torn so far apart from each other, suffered so much, had come so far to find each other again. Bobbi had crossed a galaxy. Wanda had clawed her way out of the grip of demonic possession. Clint and Thor had come back from the dead. Hank had held onto his sanity by inches through two months spent in a Skrull prison. Steve…

Steve was the one with the scars now, the healed gunshot wound on his stomach as ugly and vivid as Tony's shrapnel scars had ever been, while Tony's chest was smooth and untouched, the relief map of years of heart surgeries and old injuries wiped away by the Extremis. Tony had cried the first time he'd seen it, had buried his face in Steve's flat, freshly scarred stomach and shaken with the force of his relief, at the tangible proof that this was Steve, his Steve, instead of a clone or an alien copy.

"Why do I always have to say it?" Steve asked, but he was smiling, that open, easy grin that could light up an entire room.

"Because it is traditional," Thor told him solemnly. "If you do not speak the words, then I shall say them."

"Make him say it, Tony," Carol said, jabbing an elbow at Tony's side. He couldn't feel it, not inside the armor, but he got the point.

"Steve," he said warningly, and despite the fact that he was still smiling uncontrollably, that he couldn't stop smiling, he was also deadly serious. He tried to put some of that sincerity into his voice when he added, "It's your team. Make us official."

Steve laughed, and for just a second he looked twenty-five again, the way he had when they'd first met. "All right, all right." He thrust his shield up over his head and shouted "Avengers Assemble!" in a voice that could have carried halfway across the city.

The crowd gathered in front of the re-built Mansion cheered, and Tony felt so happy it almost hurt. In spite of everything, his family was together again, and they were home.

* * *

(1) For those non-Americans who weren't forced to learn it in kindergarten, the lyrics to "America the Beautiful":

Oh beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain,  
For purple mountain's majesty, above the fruited plain!  
America, America! God shed his grace on thee,  
And crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea.

Oh beautiful for heroes proved in liberating strife,  
Who more than self their country loved, and mercy more than life!  
America, America! God mend then every flaw.  
Confirm thy soul in self control, thy liberty in law.

Oh beautiful for patriot's dream that sees beyond the years.  
Thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears.  
America, America! God shed his grace on thee,  
And crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea.


End file.
